THE
BARKER
I call
him The Barker. He stands most mornings at Market and Montgomery yapping incoherent monosyllables
at passing traffic.
He approached me before dawn today while I waited for the #5 Fulton.
"Won't money ye?"
"Pardon?"
"Wall mounted see?"
"One more time?"
I stared at his swollen tongue, his snaggled teeth, his cracked lips. I was trying to understand as he tried again.
"One monk easy?"
"This is October."
"Ahhh, Octove. Wuzza dade?"
"This is the fourteenth of October."
"Four teens. Sank you."
There but for the grace of God go you and I.
He approached me before dawn today while I waited for the #5 Fulton.
"Won't money ye?"
"Pardon?"
"Wall mounted see?"
"One more time?"
I stared at his swollen tongue, his snaggled teeth, his cracked lips. I was trying to understand as he tried again.
"One monk easy?"
"This is October."
"Ahhh, Octove. Wuzza dade?"
"This is the fourteenth of October."
"Four teens. Sank you."
There but for the grace of God go you and I.
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